Truck Stop
by HippyWhippy
Summary: Arthur has a choice; he can either be burdened with unemployment or work in a drab truck stop on route 66. Unfortunately for him, there's a regular customer who catches his eye. The sequel can be found on my profile.


Arthur blamed Antonio for the fiasco that had happened at the radio station.  
It'd been his last job, and he'd liked it a lot. Sound Engineer. He had a good ear for music, too, so he especially enjoyed it when Francis was playing the music and _not _talking.  
But Antonio had been a bit of a problem. The other man who worked with them, Gilbert- he and Arthur got along just fine. They had even been drinking buddies in high school. But Antonio and Arthur had _never _gotten along.  
Long story short, there was a fight, and Arthur got fired on the grounds of starting it. He wasn't particularly happy with it, especially since his apartment wasn't exactly cheap to own. One of his brothers had offered to find him work. He should have _known _it was too good to be true, especially since it was _Alistair, _and within a fortnight of unemployment, he was working in a truck stop on route 66.  
He hated the food he worked with, he hated the _people _he worked with, and he hated the people he served. He hated the thick smell of cigarette smoke that hung around the truckers at 12:30 at night, and he hated the way they looked at him. It paid okay, at least. He worked absolutely _insane _hours, and since it was on the main highway that led out of the town, there were plenty of customers, _most _of whom tipped. There were a few assholes who acted like not tipping was a freaking positive character trait. It wasn't bad money, but it was the _work _he hated, and he swore to himself that he'd pay Alistair back, somehow.  
The customers were fairly consistent; Big, burly truckies, the occasion college student (usually one doing an art degree) who had nothing better to do in the middle of the night than wander around, and every so often a car packed to the brim with family members, tired from a long trip out of town.  
_He _was a little different, though.  
_He _was a trucker, that much was certain. He had blond hair that had been bleached golden-brown by the sun, and the sort-of uneven tan that one got from sitting in the cab of a truck. For the colour of his hair, Arthur could wager that he had a glorious treasure trail, not that he usual thought such depraved thoughts. He didn't have a beard or a shaved head, and he didn't reek of cigarette smoke, which already set him apart from about 80% of Arthur's usual clientele.  
_He _was just shy of twenty, it seemed, and he looked more like a bright, optimistic student than a trucker. That was definitely his semi parked outside though.  
His smile was so brilliant; Arthur could have cried just from looking at it.  
"Two cheeseburgers and a cup of coffee, please."  
It was quarter past two in the morning and he was drinking coffee, so he was probably heading _out _of town. Or maybe just passing through. Either way, it was a little too late, and _hot _for coffee. –At least, for Arthur's liking. Arthur just nodded, fetching it for him anyway. He smiled gratefully, thanked him loudly, and dug in. Arthur just chewed his gum and waited for his shift to end. (The gum was a necessity. The smell of smoke around him constantly had _almost _re-sparked his own bad habits. One of the other waitresses had suggested it to him.)  
"These are good."  
"I'll tell the cook."  
_He _nodded. "Could I have another, please? –And another cup of coffee? Hate to be a bother." He added, genuinely.  
Arthur could have rolled his eyes. _This is my job. _"It's not a bother if you're paying for it." He said instead, and _He _laughed. It was so loud and sincerely happy, Arthur was almost taken aback.  
Whoever the hell Mr Perfect was, he tipped well.

_He_ returned two days later. It was midday, blistering hot, and the aircon was being fixed. _He_ had discarded his plaid button-down shirt for the white wife beater underneath, and he had a tattoo of a girl on his right shoulder. (It was a fairly sailor-jerry type tattoo, but it looked well-done enough)  
He smiled at Arthur, so pleasant and nice. "Hi."  
"Hm."  
"Two cheeseburgers and a coffee please."  
"Mm-hm."  
Arthur eyed his tattoo as he ate. It was a tacky one, too. A pretty blond girl in a bikini wrapped up in an American flag. Arthur snickered. Through a mouth full of food, he looked up, surprised. "What?"  
"Ex-wife?" Arthur asked, raising an eyebrow.  
He flexed his muscles, and he named 'Madeline' rippled, bannered under the girl. "My sister, actually. She's very important to me. I was drunk and patriotic."  
Arthur grinned, and he looked so pleased with himself. "Madeline…" He muttered, and he reached out, like he was considering touch him. Instead, he drew back, depositing himself behind the counter. "Nice name."  
"Thanks. I'm Alfred."  
"Arthur."  
He drummed his fingers on the counter, watched quietly as Alfred finished up the two burgers and continuously pouring cups of coffee, all the while looking please with himself, like he was happy that he'd made a new friend. Arthur was just glad he had a name to put to a face.  
Alfred wiped his mouth on a napkin, scrunching it up and tossing it onto his plate. "Thanks."  
"No worries." He paused.  
He pulled a massive tip out of his wallet. (Two fives and a ten. What the hell.) "Can I buy you dinner, by any chance?"  
Arthur put his hands on his hips and frowned. His hand had just been hovering over the (ridiculous) tip, which suddenly felt more like a bribe. "No, thank you."  
"Ok. Thanks again!" He smiled, tossing a wave over his shoulder. "I guess I'll see you before my next trip."  
He pocketed the money. "I guess you will."

Alfred F. Jones was 24, and he was a proud Flow Boy. His sister was two years younger- she worked at as a first-grade teacher, and there were two men both fighting for her attention. Alfred liked to talk about her a lot.  
He was so god damn cheerful, so talkative, he managed to get Arthur to divulge a little personal information too. He lived with his twat of a French roommate. They'd moved to America together about ten years ago. He was 30.  
Alfred didn't ask him out again, for a while. He came back after long trips smelling of sweat and grease. He always ordered the same thing. The only other regulars were Francis, who sometimes came to keep Arthur company on his nights off, and a university student who was always awake at three in the morning and kind of looked like Edward Scissorhands.  
"He's gorgeous, Francis."  
"Americans." Francis agreed, licking the cream off his spoon. "Yum. Is he single?"  
"Yes. He asked me out."  
Francis raised a perfect eyebrow, spoon handing out of his mouth. "-And you said-?"  
Arthur coughed. "I said no-"  
He sighed. "You're hopeless, Arthur." He chewed his lip thoughtfully. "I wonder if I could-"  
"_No_."  
Almost endearingly, Francis gave him a sickening flirtatious smile. "Would you like to come home with me then, Arthur?"  
"Sod off." Came his immediate reply. "Is your woman giving you trouble again?"  
He sighed. "Gilbert keeps flirting with her while they're at work. It's cheating if you ask me. Especially in front of the children. I don't know why he ever went to work in child care…"  
There was a beat, and Arthur frowned. "Madeline, isn't it?"  
"Yes. How did you-" He paused. "Alfred? _That _Alfred? He's positively scrumptious, Arthur! How could you ever have said no to-"  
"I'll spit in your coffee."  
This was not an empty threat.  
When Arthur was alone at night he manned the CD stacker in the corner and blasted the music that he loved. He spent money from his own pay check replacing the old radio the stop had, just so he could do this. If the front of the tuckshop wasn't mostly window, he probably would have danced, but the darkness outside made him feel uneasy, even without the gun under the counter that he'd never used and never planned to.  
The Beatles, Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, Leonard Cohen. He could have cried, sometimes, he loved the music so much. He trusted Francis enough that when he came in he didn't turn the music down. Francis didn't speak when Sid Vicious or Elton John was singing, he waited until the song was over. He bought Edith Piaf CDs that he'd burned himself at work, and they sat in silence and reflection together.  
-But when Alfred walked in at three in the morning, and Arthur was leaning against the counter, hip cocked sharp and cheeky as a gun, he didn't lean over to turn the music down either. He let it go, and hoped Alfred would understand.  
Maybe he did, or maybe he didn't want to raise his voice, because he waited patiently until John and Paul had finished.

'_I'd love to turn you on'_

Alfred propped his head up on his hand, smiling dopily. "The usual."  
"Hm."  
He busied himself with the food and coffee, turned the music down. Alfred just kept smiling at him, like he'd seen something special, and _fuck _maybe he did know. -Which meant, of course, that Alfred knew too much. Arthur was no longer a grumpy waiter. He had _character _now. Volume. He was interesting.  
"You can buy me dinner." Arthur said quietly. "I'd like for you- for you to buy me dinner."  
Alfred's smile widened, so beautiful and bright. "I'd like that. Too." He laughed awkwardly.  
The silence was broken by Edward Scissorhands walking in, taking his seat in the corner and ordering a coffee. Neither of them seemed mind.


End file.
